


The Secret of Harry Potter

by satismagic



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Adventure, Fantasy, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-08
Updated: 2010-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-12 12:38:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/124898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satismagic/pseuds/satismagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A creative companion to a readalong of the Harry Potter series. AKA The Plot Bunny That Would Not Go Away. New students, new secrets, and many surprises ... Rating subject to change without notice. (WIP on hiatus.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Joke?

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of Joanne K. Rowling. Any characters, settings, places from the Harry Potter books and movies used in this work are the property of Joanne K. Rowling, and Warner Brothers. Original characters belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the private enjoyment of readers at AO3, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

The owl crashed against the window with a painful smack, sliding down the glass in slow motion, splayed and flat, almost like a special effect in a movie.

For a moment Peter Morgan stared at the clump of feathers on the balcony in shock. Then he put two and two together – that equals four – and rolled his eyes. You should think that Anna would finally stop with that non-sense, now that the last book was published, read, dissected and read again. But no, the twin-sister of his best friend and therefore by default his friend, too, would simply not stop with her wizarding jokes.

He slid back the door and bent down to fling the cheap feathered toy back down into her face with disgust and a few well-chosen hexes. He'd never admit that to anyone, but the one and only thing in the "Harry Potter" books that he really liked were the spells. He liked the sound of them, and he often found himself repeating them in his mind.

Just an inch above the tawny feathers, he hesitated. Blinked. Sank to his knees. He'd never seen a live owl close up. There was one in the local zoo, but it kept to the shadows away from the wire netting. This one was small, round, and fluffy. He didn't know what to do. He knew from his budgies that birds generally did not take well to having their feathers stroked. Was it even still alive? Very carefully he reached out with his index-finger. The feathers of the bird's breast were soft as downs. Suddenly the owl moved. It appeared to shake its head as if it was dizzy. And it probably was, having collided with the glass of the balcony door like that.

"You're alive!" He sighed with relief. "Why ever did you fly against the balcony door?" He bit his lip when he realised that he'd been speaking aloud. It wouldn't do for Anna to hear him, not after having teased her about her habit of talking to animals for years.

The owl blinked at him, very slowly, almost as if it had understood him. Then it ruffled its feathers, shook its wings, and was all at once back on its feet. With a curious little hop it moved to one side, where it continued to sit in a daze, listing a little to the left, almost as if it had one too many drinks.

The owl had been lying on a letter.

Now it was Peter's turn to blink slowly. He did it a couple of times. But the owl remained where it was, and the letter – a pretty big letter, compared to the size of the owl – remained where it was, too. The letter lay on the split tile right in front of the balcony door, obscuring most of the crack. It was made of thick yellowish paper or parchment. At least it had the splodges and swirls he recognized from parchment designs of gift wraps and gift cards. It bore the scratch of what looked like an owl's claws gripping a letter too hard at the point of colliding with a hard surface. And a wax seal.

The wax was dark red and shiny and the images impressed in the wax looked strangely familiar: there was a big bird, a lion rampant, a bristling badger and a dragon. Or rather, not a dragon, but a wyrm – one of those snake-like dragons with wings. In the middle between the animals was a letter. A big, striking F.

"What the EFF is that?" Peter asked nobody in particular. The owl closed its eyes and swayed in the other direction, obviously still quite nauseated.

Gingerly, he reached out and turned the letter over. When he saw the address, he dropped the missive as if he'd burned his fingers.

 **ooo**

* * *

" _To  
Mr Peter Morgan  
The Den  
White Friars Road 4  
Chester, Cheshire  
United Kingdom"_

* * *

 **ooo**   
_  
_

For a moment he just stared at the letter. Then he inhaled deeply. Of course. He had been right, after all. Only one of his friends would know that he called his room "The Den". He stood up and went out on the balcony. "Anna? Anna, you little twerp, you're so gonna pay for this. And where did you get that owl anyway?" He looked down, fully expecting to find his friend's twin collapsed in silent laughter on the lawn down below. But she wasn't there. Actually, there seemed to be no one out there at all. "Anna? Come on, show yourself, game over."

Silence. The drowsy silence of a summer afternoon in Chester. On the road in front of the house a car passed by, somewhere in the distance he heard the voices of two women, chatting and laughing. But nearby? Nothing. No giggles, no snorts, no suppressed laughter. For some reason his throat felt suddenly tight and his mouth was dry. He turned around again.

The owl was still there, eyes closed, head now curled under its wing. But it still couldn't sit straight.

And the letter was still there, too. He swallowed and picked it up.

 _Just. A. Joke. It's just a joke, and Anna will pay for this. Henry and I will never let her live THIS down._ But his fingers were cold when he broke the seal and unfolded the ... he drew a deep breath. Parchment. It was too heavy for paper, and the texture was all wrong.

The letterhead bore the same coat of arms as the wax seal.

Below the image, he read:

 **ooo**

* * *

FOGCOURTS ACADEMY  
of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY  
Advanced Studies in MAGIC

Headmaster: ALBUS P. W. P. HUMBLELORE  
 _(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Mag. Extr., Int. Confed. of Witches and Wizards_ _, etc. etc.)_

Dear Mr. Morgan,

We are pleased to notify you that you have been selected to attend the Fogcourts Academy of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed in this letter a list with all the necessary books and equipment for your first term at the school. In case you have difficulties obtaining any of these items, please see the mail order catalogue or the online shop _www. allyourwizardingneeds .com_  
An appointment for our counsellor for students of mundane origins to meet with your parents has already been arranged.  
Term begins on September 1. We expect your arrival at Stirling station no later than 3 pm. Your return owl should be sent no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,  
Minerva McGonagall,  
 _Deputy Headmistress_

* * *

 **ooo**   
_  
_

"I'll be damned," muttered Peter Morgan and sank down on his knees in front of the balcony door once more. The owl, which now resembled nothing so much as a feathered ball, did not stir a single feather.

 **oooOooo**

* * *

A/N: Welcome to The Plot Bunny That Would Not Go Away.

I have several warnings:

1 - I have no idea what this is going to be, except maybe a creative companion for the HP read-along I'm currently engaged in.

2 - This has not been beta-read and it will not be beta-read. I love concrit, but I'm not trying for perfect writing with this (those efforts are currently dedicated wholly to my o-fic). I'm just trying to get rid of that plot bunny, so humour me here.

Having said all that, I hope you enjoyed this and I'm afraid there's more to come.

Cheers,

JunoMagic

P.S.: I apologize for not updating certain other stories. Please believe me, they are NOT abandoned. I'm just slow because of a very busy offline life.

For everything else, please see my "Krimskrams, Chota Mota, Odds and Ends" forum.


	2. More Letters

"That was Peter on the phone," Henry said and slumped down next to Anna on the porch. "He's not coming over this afternoon. Some kind of appointment or other."

"Good. We don't need that git over here every day," Anna muttered, but without any real conviction. Peter was her twin's best friend. Henry knew that she'd never forgiven him the incident with the slugs in first grade. But by now she gave as good as she got.

Henry shifted uncomfortably, thinking about how short his friend had been on the phone. "He sounded strange somehow. D'you think he could be in trouble?"

"Peter? In trouble?" She rolled her eyes and closed the book she was reading with a thump. "Would that ever happen?" Then she appeared to realise that her twin was honestly worried, because she frowned and thought about his question. "He was perfectly normal on Tuesday, teasing me about my Harry Potter 'addiction' as he calls it."

Henry quirked up an eyebrow and tried not to look at the book in his sister's lap. After reading "Deathly Hallows" twice – and sneaking into his room because of nightmares three days in a row – she'd turned around and started at the beginning. "Voracious" did not even begin to describe her appetite for books. He knew his parents had thought that she was too young to read the last three Harry Potter books. But they also knew their daughter. It would have been quite impossible to keep her from the books, so they had allowed her to read them – provided that she talked with them about every chapter. That way, the Harry Potter books had somehow turned into a family affair.

Anna caught her brother's look and her cheeks flushed. "There's nothing wrong with being a fan."

"Of course not." He knew better than to start that argument again. To his relief, she got on her feet and put the book on the table with a thump.

"Well," she said and eyed him expectantly. "If he's not coming over, what do we do then?"

"How about the treehouse?" Henry tried not to look too hopeful. He loved doing things with his hands. Pottery was cool. But building stuff was even better. Boards and nails and saws. Last summer they had built a treehouse in the big walnut tree at the end of their garden with the help of their father. It had been up to Henry to keep it in shape. And now, at the beginning of the summer holidays he was proud to say that it was in perfect condition.

"Sure!" She jumped up. "We'll need a picnic. I'll go ask mummy what we may take."

 **oooOooo**

He saw it first, when they clambered up into the walnut tree. A small owl was sitting in the far corner of the treehouse and looking at him with a slightly disappointed expression on its face. Henry froze. Behind him, his sister prodded him in the calf.

"Get on with you!"

"Anna – hush! You won't believe what's up there!"

"What? Where?"

"Shhhh!" Slowly, in an effort not to scare the little bird away, he ducked below the floor of the treehouse again and looked down at his sister's frown. "There's an owl in our treehouse! A real live owl!"

"An owl!" she gasped. "Where? How? Careful, I want to see it, too," she whispered urgently.

"Yes, of course!" He hesitated. "It seemed quite calm ... Maybe if I climb up and to the side? Very slowly? And you follow me? She's in the far corner."

"Yes, yes, let's. Careful!"

He nodded. Very slowly he moved his head up again, until he could see over the edge of the wooden floor. The owl was still there, sitting in the twilight of the leaves in the farthest corner of the treehouse. Relieved, he released his breath. It was agonizing to move so slowly, his eyes always on the bird. But he managed to draw himself up and sit back against the wall with tiny movements and not too much noise. The owl watched him, then turned her attention back to the hatch, where his sisters head appeared, tousled brown hair, huge dark-brown eyes and all.

"Oh!" she mouthed, without actually making a sound.

The owl looked as if it was grinning.

Very, very slowly, Anna climbed up the ladder, carefully keeping as far away from the bird as possible. Then she was up and sitting next to Henry.

"Oh," she whispered this time. "How beautiful."

The owl fluffed up its feathers as if it had understood Anna, but did not move. She appeared to have no fear of humans at all.

"She's a Little Owl. _Athene noctua_ ," Anna lectured. "I recognize it from my book. Long legs, and yellow eyes, and stern white 'eyebrows'. They are partly di– diurnal. Awake during daytime."

Henry narrowed his eyes. "She's also sitting on something," he said.

Anna blinked, trying to follow her brother's gaze. "Do you think she's got her nest here?" In her excitement she almost forgot to lower her voice.

Henry shook his head. "No way. I've been up here on Monday, and there was no sign of a nest. Also, this looks more like –"

The owl fluttered her wings and hopped to the side.

"– like a letter."

The owl gazed expectantly up at them.

Henry could feel how his sister stiffened next to him. He threw her an uncertain glance. She had pressed her lips together, and her eyes were almost black with rage.

"If that's another of Peter's jokes," she choked out, "then I'll kill him very very dead."

"Anna –"

Her hands were balled. She didn't move towards the letter. It was a letter, so much was clear even at this distance. Fairly big, and the colour of the envelope was a pale kind of smudged yellow. Parchement. The owl was still sitting there, gazing up at them.

 _This is not happening,_ Henry thought. _This is impossible._

Out loud he said, in an attempt to be reasonable, "Where would Peter get an owl?"

"I. Don't. Know."

There was no reasoning with his sister when she was in a temper.

"Well, if you're not curious about that letter, I am," he said evenly. He looked at the owl, feeling the stupid need to ask her for permission. He did an awkward little bow. "May I?" The owl regarded him thoughtfully, and appeared to sink down into a doze.

Henry swallowed dryly and crept forward.

It was indeed an envelope, sealed with shiny red wax. And it was addressed ...

 _... to his sister._

He felt his heart beat like a drum, and his stomach felt tight as if he'd been punched right in the middle. He glanced back at the corner, just to make sure. But there was no other envelope there.

"It's for you," he said. "Don't you want to read it?"

She shook her head. "I'm sick of those jokes. I wish I'd never read those dratted books."

"You don't mean that." Then he asked carefully, "May I open your letter? Just to see if this ... if this is some kind of joke?"

She nodded, then buried her face in her hands.

"Fogcourts Academy," Henry read. "of witchcraft and wizardry. Advanced Studies in magic. Headmaster: Albus P. W. P. Humblelore."

He gulped. "Dear Miss Perkins, We are pleased to notify you ..."

Henry let the letter sink down into his lap and stared. First at the owl, then at his sister.

"You know, if I didn't know that this is impossible, I'd say that this –" He pointed at the letter. "– is the real thing. And it looks like you've been invited."

Anna stared at him and he was a little shocked at how intense her gaze was. As if she was hurting, and hoping, and all at the same time.

"But that's impossible," she whispered. "That's just another one of Peter's wicked jokes."

Henry's stomach quivered. He tried not to think about himself. Instead he scrutinized the letter once more. "He could never write that neatly. And he doesn't know the Potter stuff well enough to come up with something like that. It – it's kind of like the books, but – not quite." He swallowed again, but the lump in his throat would not go away. "It looks just as official as our report card."

"But that's impossible," shouted Anna suddenly and grabbed the letter from his hands, owl forgotten. "There is no magic. I HAVE no magic. Don't you think I've wished to have it? Ever since I read about it first? But there is NO magic."

With that, she knelt down, lowered herself down the hatch and climbed down the tree, the parchment crumpling in her left hand.

 **oooOooo**

She stormed into the kitchen, helter-skelter. Elise Perkins – who had a part-time job in a local pottery – was already at home, and, as usual, in the kitchen. She loved working with her hands, and if she was not busy with her pottery, she was usually baking or brewing something in her kitchen. But not today. As Anna burst into the kitchen, her mother was standing behind the sideboard, looking out of the window, deep in thought.

"Mummy," Anna cried, tears of anger and fear spilling over. "Please tell me this is a joke!" She held out the rumpled parchment to her mother. "This cannot be true, can it?" she pleaded.

"Oh, honey," her mother said and gathered her in a tight embrace.

After a few moments, her daugher appeared to have calmed down somewhat. Taking Anna's hands, she broke the embrace. "Let's sit down, shall we?"

Anna nodded. She was still shaking, but not quite as hard.

"I've just been on the phone with Peter's mother for a long time," Elise said.

"So it was a joke!" The despair in Anna's voice was palpable.

She shook her head and continued in a – she hoped – calm voice. "His mother told me that Peter will not be going to the King's School in September. He has been accepted at a very special school for students with very special talents. They have spent all morning with a counsellor from that school. And they are very happy for him."

Anna's lower lip was starting to quiver again.

"Anna? I'd like to show you something."

Anna managed to nod and drew up her nose with a slurp. Elise rolled her eyes, but for once she didn't comment. Instead she went to her old desk and pulled a hefty letter out of a drawer. "We got a letter a week ago," she said softly. "About you."

Anna stared at the coat of arms at the top of the sheaf of pages in her mother's arms. With a shaking hand she held up the crumpled piece of parchment she was still clinging on.  
The same images graced both letterheads: an eagle or a raven, a lion rising up on his hind feet, a badger, and dragonlike snake.

"But it's an F," she whispered. "And I don't know any magic at all!"

Her mother laughed and drew her closer to her side. "Oh, Anna, you silly girl! Do you really think there could be a school of secondary education called 'Hogwarts' somewhere?"

"No – I – but the books! And the movies! Why – how ..." she trailed off.

"Peter's mother said that the Harry Potter series is a public relations effort – a promotions kind of thing – of the –" Elise hesitated at the unfamiliar, and slightly outlandish term, "Ministry of Magic. Knowing the books and the movies is supposed to make it easier for children of mundane origin, like you, and Peter, to integrate, to fit in the wizarding world."

Anna blinked, slowly processing her mothers words, shook her head. "But, but, but," she repeated, "I really – you KNOW I don't know any magic."

 _Have you been dreaming so much of this other world,_ Elise wondered, looking at her agumentative daughter, _that you are so scared it couldn't possibly be real?_ She had no idea about magic, but she did know her daughter. And Anna had always been a very precocious, talented child. Not that she had done anything uncanny, like making objects fly or anything like that. But animals had always seemed to understand her, and even at six years she had known – simply known – how to season a good sauce. Something Elise had always believed might be a talent she herself had passed on to her daughter. But now she was not so sure anymore.

"That, my dear, is why you're supposed to _go_ to that school," she said at her driest, hoping to quench Anna's tears at last. "I expect they'll be able to teach you. And tomorrow that counsellor," she glanced at her set of pages again, "Mrs Dora Tonks-Lupin, professor for mundane studies, will be here at ten. I'm sure she'll be able to explain everything to you."

Anna was staring at her mother with huge eyes. "Tonks-Lupin?" she whispered. "But they – she – the books –"

Elise frowned, wondering if whoever was responsible for the public relations strategy in the ministry of magic had known what they were doing when they released the Harry Potter phenomenon on the world. "Anna," she said in a serious voice. "You need to realise one thing now, and please keep that in mind: THIS is for real. This is NOT a joke, and NOT those books. Please try to keep fantasy and reality apart."

Anna flushed, cheeks red, lip quivering all over again. But she nodded nervously. "I – of course – I – I just can't believe – and ... how come _you_ believed it so quickly?"

Her glare turned accusatory.

Elise smiled. "I don't think I ever told you, and I've never really been sure up until now. But I think my grandmother – my mother's mother – was a witch."

"Wow! You have to tell us –" Anna hesitated, realising that her brother wasn't there. Suddenly she became very still. Then she drew a deep breath and turned around. Her mother followed her gaze to where Henry stood in the doorway, staring at the letters in his sister's and his mother's hand. On his arm sat the Little Owl, perfectly posed.

He swallowed and his face was just a little too calm. Elise put the letters aside, rose to her feet and walked over to her son. She laid her hand on his shoulder, careful not to disturb the owl. He looked up at her with a strange expression in his green-brown eyes.

"I didn't get a letter," he said at last.


	3. Meet the Counsellor for Students of Mundane Origins

Peter sat on his bed and kept staring at the letter in his hand. He didn't know what to think.

"This is simply crazy," he whispered. "I did not even like those books."

The owl that was sitting on the back of a chair in the corner huffed, turned her back, ruffled her tail feathers, and with a wet sound relieved herself of some droppings.

Peter frowned at the owl. If that was a comment on what he'd said, he did not need a translation. He was only glad he'd thought of putting some old newspapers on the floor under the chair.

"Also, I don't know how to DO any magic." He jumped up and began pacing the room. The owl hid her head under her – or his? – wing.

"And my parents will NEVER believe that." He waved the letter. "I'm still not sure if I do!"

 **oooOooo**

There was a knock on his door.

A moment later his father entered the room. He opened his mouth, took in the owl perched on the chair in the corner, and closed his mouth again. Peter's father was a lawyer, and he didn't take well to any kind of mischief. James Morgan frowned. Peter stood very still, his fingers clenching around the letter. Suddenly he hoped that the letter was real. If only because he didn't want to have to explain how he'd come up with this "joke".

His father inhaled deeply, looking from the owl to Peter and back."Well," he said at last. "Well. They said they would send an owl to you."

Peter's heart was pounding all at once, as if he'd just run a race. He'd expected anything, but not such a matter-of-fact statement. And his dad wasn't surprised at all! Wait – of course! – the letter had mentioned that a meeting between his parents and a counsellor had already been arranged. So the school must have written to his parents, or even called them, before sending his letter.

His father stroked his chin in a thoughtful gesture."That counsellor, Mrs. Dora Tonks-Lupin, she's coming to meet us tomorrow morning. I have taken a day off. So no sleeping in for you tomorrow. And I don't know how long it will take, so get used to the thought that you won't be able to meet up with your friends in the afternoon."

Peter nodded. He pressed his lips together, to prevent any annoying questions from escaping. His dad liked his peace and quiet after a day in the law firm.

"I came to tell you that dinner is ready." A pause. "Good thinking, those newspapers."

Peter felt a relieved smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His father grinned wearily, then put a hand on his shoulder. "Leave that letter. We'll talk about that tomorrow."

Downstairs Peter's mother was already waiting for them. Wednesday was their pizza night. Her smile changed, when she caught his father's eyes. A small frown appeared over her nose. She was a maths teacher and that was her stern teacher-look. Peter knew from some friends that she could be very strict.

His dad sighed, but his voice was calm, when he replied to his wife's questioning look, "There's an owl in Peter's room."

"Oh," said his mother. "Wow."

"At least he thought of putting old papers under the chair where he put her," his father said dryly.

"Oh, really," a grin quirked his mother's lips. "What a clever boy."

Somehow Peter had the feeling that he was missing a part of the conversation. Or some joke between his parents that he didn't know about.

When he was halfway through his pizza – ham and onions – he finally dared to mention the letter. "I thought you would think that's some kind of joke."

"If it IS a joke, the prankster will regret ever having thought of it tomorrow morning," Peter's father replied. "I hate using my free-days for no good reason."

"I thought at first it was a joke," Peter insisted.

Peter's father said nothing for a long time. He just stared straight ahead, using his best stony lawyer's look. At last he sighed. "My father – your grandfather –" Peter's father's father had died a year before Peter was born, and his dad almost never mentioned him. They had not gotten along well, Peter assumed. "– he thought it was a joke."

"What?" Peter stared at his father with his mouth wide open. "You ... you got an owl, too?"

His father nodded. "Yes, I did. I was very excited. My father was not. He took the owl away. I assume he refused meeting any counsellor they might have sent."

Peter continued to stare at his father. There was a weird lump in his stomach. His father was a wizard? And what had happened to his owl? What had his grandfather done with it?

"What – what happened with your owl? And – and can you show me some magic?"

The unhappy frown was back on his father's face. "I assume the owl was killed. And no, I cannot show you any 'magic' or whatever. I never went to that school! I can only assume that whatever I might have been able to do, that it eventually went away. I suppose I grew out of it."

"James." His mother laid a soothing hand on his father's arm.

"I suggest you go to bed early tonight," his father told Peter. "That Professor Tonks-Lupin is going to be here at 10 am."

 **oooOooo**

Peter did go to bed early, but he couldn't sleep for a long time.

For one thing, his room smelled rather strongly of owl. The owl had become increasingly fidgety after dinner, obviously recovered from her unfortunate accident earlier that day. At last Peter remembered that owls hunted at night and he opened the balcony door. The owl had promptly taken off into the night. So of course he couldn't go to bed, because he was scared that she wouldn't come back. But she did come back a short time later, as if she was checking on him. She sat for a few minutes perched on the chair, and looked at him with glowing eyes. Then she took off again.

But he still couldn't sleep. There was simply too much to think about.

His dad could have been a wizard. That was almost too much to wrap his mind around. His dad was a lawyer. He was very successful, and very non-magical. He did not smile often. He worked all the time. _He_ could have been a wizard? Somehow, in Peter's mind that simply did not match. Lawyer and wizard. And his magic had simply gone away, because _his_ father hadn't allowed him to go to that school? That made Peter's stomach tighten up real hard.

And the school. Fogcourts. _Not_ Hogwarts. Although he could easily see how to get from the real name to the nickname. _It must be a nickname_ , he thought. He wondered about those books and movies, as he lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling of his room. Wasn't the wizarding world supposed to be a secret? He blinked and rubbed his eyes. But _he_ hadn't believed that letter either, at first. Mainly _because_ of the books. Now, however, he couldn't stop thinking about the books, and he wished that he'd bought them, not just borrowed them from Anna. He couldn't remember the details as well as he wanted to. What was the same? What was different?

And then: magic. His stomach did a weird flip. As far as he was aware of, he did not have any magic. He could not talk to snakes. He could not make glass disappear. He didn't think he had ever caused anything unusual to happen at all. What if it was all a giant mistake? If he had no magic at all? But if they had sent an owl to his father, and they had now sent an owl to him, maybe he did have magic, only he didn't know?

Eventually he fell asleep, and he dreamt of owls and old men who ran after them with guns.

 **oooOooo**

Professor Tonks-Lupin did not look like a wizard. She looked rather like a business woman. She was dressed in an immaculate dark costume with a white blouse and carried a leather brief-case under her arm. The only thing that reminded of where she came from was the coat of arms imprinted in the leather of her briefcase, the F with the bird, lion, badger and dragon around it.

She greeted his parents politely. "Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, I am Dora Tonks-Lupin, the professor for mundane studies at Fogcourts Academy, and the counsellor for students of mundane origins. I would like to thank you for being willing to see me."

Peter's mother smiled, and gave Peter a little push to move forward and say hello. Peter's father wore his serious lawyer-look, but he nodded encouragingly at Peter.

Peter stepped in front of the professor and extended his hand. His heart was beating too fast. _I am not scared_ , he told himself firmly. _I am not. Scared._

But standing in front of her, the professor looked quite friendly and unthreatening. Her face was pale and heart-shaped, and when she took Peter's hand, her dark eyes twinkled as she smiled at him.

"Nice to meet you, Peter."

 **oooOooo**

They went into the living room, and Peter's mother served tea and muffins. Peter's father settled down in his favourite armchair, placing a stack of parchments and papers in front of him on the table. So his parents had been sent much more stuff than just a simple letter, Peter realised.

"I see you have read the information material we sent to you," smiled Mrs. Tonks-Lupin. "But I assume you still have many questions."

"Yes," replied Carol Morgan. "Of course. You can imagine that this was quite a surprise. Not something most people are ready to believe, especially with the hype about those books and movies ..."

The professor actually rolled her eyes at that. Peter had to stifle a giggle. "Indeed," said the professor. "I cannot tell you how many difficulties those publications have caused us. As a matter of fact, they cause about as many problems as they have solved."

Peter's father snorted. His mother shifted uneasily and to Peter's surprise, flushed a bit. "I feel very silly for asking – I should really be asking about lesson plans, parent-teacher-conferences and other things, but, I hope you understand, I have to ask –"

"If there really was a You-Know-Who?" Tonks-Lupin sighed. "That is not at all silly, Mrs. Morgan. As a mother that would be one of the first questions I would ask, too."

"No," she added. "There is not and never has been a 'You-Know-Who'." For a moment the professor was silent, then she went on, "The wizarding world shares much of the history of the mundane world, its wars and threats, and I will speak plainly: there _are_ dangers and evils in the wizarding world beyond that of your world. But I can assure you that an evil wizard whose name must not be spoken is not among them. And you must admit, between you and me, if anything sounds silly, it's calling someone 'You-Know-Who'."

With that out of the way, the conversation shifted towards more ordinary school stuff. And some rather extraordinary school stuff.

At the end of term would be an open day at school, so that parents could come and look at the school and meet the teachers. Three times a term his parents would receive a letter about his academic and magical progress.

Peter would not be allowed to bring a pet until his third year.

"That's wishful thinking on somebody's part smuggled into those books," groused Tonks-Lupin. "Can you imagine trying to tame a horde of eleven year olds with _pets_?"

Carol Morgan laughed and shook her head.

Peter was also not allowed to bring a broom of his own. But more important, he was not allowed to bring any electric device.

"Electricity interferes with magic. Especially with the development of a child's magic. And most of all during puberty. Exposure to electricity, radiation, radio waves and such during that time will eventually extinguish any magical abilities a person may have had. It's really not quaint habits that cause us to make do without modern appliances and such," Tonks-Lupin explained. "It's health reasons."

Peter's father looked thoughtful, then he sighed. "So that's what happened to me."

The professor nodded. "I'm sorry, sir."

James Morgan shook his head. "Never mind. How about during the holidays? Are there any precautions we should take?"

Mrs. Tonks-Lupin nodded. "There are a number of things you can do. I will send you some brochures. We will also test Peter's magical resources before every holiday. If he's at a critical stage in his development, he can always stay at Fogcourts. We take those risks very seriously."

"Now, another important thing. The wand." When Peter sucked in his breath, the counsellor grinned at him reassuringly. "Children of mundane – non-magical origin – will be taken to choose their wands during their first week at school. Fogcourts gets special discount at Ollivander's. They really are the best wand-makers in Britain."

"Ollivander is real?" Peter clapped his hand over his mouth, mortified at his outburst.

But Tonks-Lupin did not seem to mind. "Product placement," she said dryly.

Peter's father snorted again and his mother shook her head.

"Yes, Peter, Ollivander is real. So are many other things from the books and the movies. But not all. You see, those books are supposed to make it easier for you to accept your new life. But of course some things had to be changed, or they would not have been such a raging success in the non-magical world." She glanced apologetically at Peter's mother. "Like that uh... adventure story plot, for example."

The counsellor turned back to Peter. "So you see, you need to be careful and you must not assume that everything in those books and movies is for real. You will find out what is and what is not quickly, I promise. The wands are for real. A wand is very important for a wizard. You use a wand to channel your magical powers. A bit like using a water hose instead of a shower-head." She winked at him.

That friendliness probably made him spill what had been running around his head throughout the meeting. "But, professor, I – what – what if – ?"

James Morgan frowned at that garbled question, but Professor Tonks-Lupin seemed to have no trouble understanding Peter. She smiled at him again. "No, Peter, it was not a mistake. I promise. Not all magical talents show off with spectacular displays at an early age. In fact, most of them don't."

She opened her briefcase and pulled out a piece of parchment and a short, pale wand. She glanced at the parchment. "Ah, yes – here we go. Your magical abilities were detected when you were in second grade. You fixed your art-project using charms."

Peter stared at the professor. He couldn't remember anything like that.

"You built something with wood, it says here. For an art-project. You kept talking to yourself, saying out loud what you did, and how it should work. And whenever you did that, it happened."

His heart thumped heavily in his chest. He still did that, when he was working on something. His best friend Henry kept teasing him about it. But somehow he found that habit strangely reassuring and things always seemed to work better when he did.

"For real?"

The professor's smile grew wider. "For real. And we can test that right now, if you want to. I have a one-spell-wand here for tests to reassure our new pupils about their magical abilities."

"One spell – what?"

"The wand is conjured to work for only one spell, and a weak spell at that. Just to show you that you actually can do magic."

Peter swallowed hard.

"Would you like to try?"

He nodded fiercely.

"Good. What we'll do is that – Mrs Morgan, do you happen to have an old plate that we might smash? Fixing something broken that belongs to your household is particularly effective for this test. That way you can be sure it's not some trick or sleight of hand on my part."

"A plate?" Carol Morgan looked confused.

"Yes, any kind of flat dish or plate or saucer. Cups are a bit difficult for beginners. And I can't promise that the item will look quite like it did before, so none of your good porcelain, please."

"Oh. Yes, of course. Just a moment."

His mother retreated to the kitchen. He heard her rummage in one of the cupboards. Moments later she returned with an old saucer, white porcelain with faded blue flowers and a bit knocked off at the rim. "Would that be okay?"

"Perfect." Tonks-Lupin took the saucer and set it on the table. "Now, Peter, I guess you will know the charm for this already. It's _'reparo'_ from the Latin word _'reparare'_. _'Reparo'_ means 'I repair' or 'I restore'. You say the word, point your wand at the broken object and concentrate on how you want it to look, whole and unbroken. First I want you to simply say the word."

 _Reparo_ , he did remember that one from the books. Peter concentrated on how the witch had pronounced the word. "Re-pa-ro," he said.

Tonks-Lupin nodded. "Very good. Now take that wand."

She held it out to him. His hand was shaking as he accepted it. At first it felt just like a piece of wood. Like a drumstick, or maybe the baton of a conductor. Then the palm of his hand prickled, a tickling feeling centred right in the middle. His stomach did a small flip.

"You just need to point it straight at the shards." To his parents, "That's why this is a good spell to show the children they can do magic. No movement of the wand necessary. I assure you, this is completely safe."

Nevertheless, his parents drew back a little. Then Professor Tonks-Lupin picked up the saucer and dropped it on the floor, where it promptly shattered into five pieces and a few crumbles.

"Peter. Point your wand. Hold it steady. Say _'reparo'_ and concentrate on how the saucer ought to look like, all whole and pretty."

"Okay."

There was a weight in his stomach, and his throat felt uncomfortably tight. _My dad got an owl. I got an owl. This is not a mistake. I don't want it to be a mistake._ He pointed the small wand at the shards. In his mind, he imagined the saucer, whole, white, with blue flowers along the rim. _I repair_ , he thought. _I restore._

" _Reparo!"_ he cried. The wand twitched in his hand, something like an electric shock burst through his hand and he dropped the wand. With a wooden clank, the wand fell on a gleaming white saucer with ornaments in the form of blue flowers. It was whole and unbroken. The rim was unmarred by any scratches or cracks.

"Excellent, Peter," beamed Tonks-Lupin. "Especially with such a weak wand. You even fixed that little chink."

"If I hadn't seen that with my own eyes," Carol Morgan said slowly, "I wouldn't believe that."

"So I am really magic?" Peter asked, feeling slightly out of breath although he had barely moved at all. "And I may go to that school?" He turned to his dad.

James Morgan sat and stared at the saucer, absentmindedly rubbing the palm of his hand. Then he forced a smile. "Of course you may, Peter."

But when his gaze met Professor Tonks-Lupin warm eyes, James Morgan looked incredibly sad.


	4. Expectations and Misgivings

"I'm supposed to get to school on a Muggle train? With the Muggle students? Mom, you can't be serious!" Morgaine stared at her mother, her mouth open.

"Morgaine Wichly, another word, and I'll wash your mouth with soap!" Her mother brandished her wand at her – slender, elastic, pale ash with a griffin's feather at its core - and it spurted out a few shimmering bubbles of soap.

Morgaine ducked, clamping a hand of her mouth and felt how her cheeks got hot with shame. "Sorry, mom." She swallowed. "Students of mundane origins," she said with a furtive glance at her still glowering mother.

Her mother shook her head. "And yes, dear, I _am_ serious. I'm very sorry, and I think you know how much I was looking forward to take you to Hog- to Fogcourts myself, but I have to finish that last order of perfume potions. Some of the potions need to be brewed according to the moon cycle, so I really can't leave them or brew them now or brew them later. Nothing to be done about that. I'm really sorry, dear."

Morgaine nodded slowly. She knew how hard her mother was working in order to earn enough money to see her and her brother through school and later on uni. Fogcourts was the best wizarding school in all of Britain. But it was also the most expensive.

"And it's not such a long way. Just from Glasgow to Stirling. Then it will be all magical transportation. Just think of how nervous the mundanes will be! You'll have a lot of fun just knowing what will happen." Her mother winked at her. "But –" And her mother's tone became very serious. "If I hear – and make no mistake, I _will_ hear about things like that – if you ridicule one of them, over anything, _anything at all_ , you will regret the day you spoke your first word."

When Morgaine opened her mouth, her mother held up her hand. "I know exactly what uncle Malfoy keeps saying. But I'll have NONE of that in my house or from mine. Is that clear?"

"Yes, mom." Morgaine tried to hide her burning cheeks behind her long black hair. She hadn't meant it that way anyway. Everyone (no, she had to be honest, not everyone, just most people she knew) used the term "Muggle" for non-magical people. Except for her uncle Malfoy, who – she shuddered even at thinking the word –called them "mudbloods".

"I'm just a little disappointed, is all," she admitted.

"Oh, sweetie," her mother said. She extended her arms and Morgaine allowed herself to be pulled into a warm embrace. Her mother smelled of roses and unicorn hair. She'd been brewing all morning already. "I can only repeat, I'm so sorry. You know, I could always ask Lucius if he'd take you up to ..."

But Morgaine shook her head vigorously. "No, mom. Even Mug– I'd rather go by train with the other students. And besides, isn't he going down to Oxford to see Draco off to uni?"

Her mother frowned, then wearily rubbed her forehead. "You know, I think you're right. How could I have forgotten about that?"

"You're simply working too hard, mom." She looked at her mom's pale face and hoped that her mother wouldn't see how worried she was about her. It wasn't easy on a witch to take care of two children all on her own. But since Morgaine's father had disappeared seven years ago, that's what Argentea Wichly had done. She kept refusing any financial support from the Malfoy family, stubbornly clinging to her independence while she made a name for herself as a superb potions maker with her one-witch-business.

"I think I'll be able to take a few days off after this order is filled, so don't you worry about me. Now, more important things. Do you have everything you need? It's just another week until September 1, so if there's anything missing from your list, we'll need to go to Glasgow and get it tomorrow."

Morgaine visualized the list and went through the items a first year at Fogcourts needed:

\- Three sets of plain black robes

\- A plain black witch's hat

\- A pair of gloves for lab work

\- A winter cloak with gloves and a scarf that would be ensorcelled to match her house colours once she was sorted

\- Many books ( _The Standard Book of Spells, A History of Magic, A Short World History, Magical Theory, A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration, One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, Chemistry and Biology for Beginners, Magical Drafts and Potions, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, Latin for Beginners, Mundane Studies 1_ )

\- Other equipment (money for a wand to be purchased during her first week at school, a pewter cauldron, a set of phials, a set of stirring rods, a telescope, a set of scales)

She was allowed to bring her own writing material (quills and pencils) and an instrument, but no pet and no broomstick.

"I think I have everything," she said at last. The books were handed down to her from her older brother, Gerald. Her mother had insisted on buying new clothes in spite of Morgaine suggesting that they could just as well transfigure old things from her mom. The "other equipment" they had snatched up at a bargain price at the "MAGICAL prices" discounter. Most of them were cheap imports from China and India, but so what. "We just need to attach the name tags to my clothes."

"Great!" A look of relief passed over her mother's face. "You can use my old trunk. We'll go up on the attic tonight and get it down. The perfect opportunity to stock up on dried spider webs, I think." She winked at her daughter.

 **oooOooo**

Later that evening Gerald, Morgaine and their mother sat around a big battered trunk that had been freshly de-spidered. A stack of cleaned cobwebs was currently airing in Argentea Wichly's potions lab, while a heap of dead hairy spider bits waited to be dissected in a bowl on the worktable.

But now was family time. Solemnly they looked at the greying leather of the trunk and its embossed coat of arms: A peacock with his tail swirled up and around the letters A.M., and two sabres crossed above it.

"Argentea Malfoy," Gerald said.

"We'll have to change that," his mother announced and produced her wand. _"Insignim muto."_ She swept her wand over the coat of arms in a complicated flourish. Silver fire rushed over the spot where the peacock had been a moment ago and the air was filled with the stink of smoking leather. _"Aera purgo."_ A whiff of fresh air wafted through the room, smelling faintly of spring and rain.

Her mother smiled at Morgaine. "Here you go. I hope you like it."

Morgaine stared at the trunk. The peacock and sabres had vanished. In its place a phoenix had appeared that was reaching for a rose. Bird and blossom were curling around two linked letters, bold and elegant in design: M. W. – for Morgaine Wichly.

"Oh, mom," she whispered. "That's beautiful."

She hugged her mother, careful not to touch the wand. "Thank you!"

Morgaine knew that such a delicate, lasting transfiguration was hard work and really exhausting, even for a strong witch like her mother.

Her mother gave her a tired smile. "I'm glad you like it."

"Cool wand-work, mom," commented Gerald and traced the lines of the new design. Then he looked over to Morgaine and gave her a wicked grin. "Are you nervous about the sorting already?"

"Of course not, you –"

"Morgaine!"

Morgaine winced and fell silent. Her mother didn't like her children to use bad words. Not even in jest. And she normally wouldn't have. Except, she really was nervous.

Her ever perceptive mother raised an eyebrow. " _Are_ you nervous?"

Morgaine bit on her lower lip and had to ball her hands not to finger her braids in a – well, in a nervous gesture. "M- maybe. A little," she hedged. "A very little bit," she added and glared at her brother. Gerald was entering his fifth year at Fogcourts and was a well-respected student in Ravenclaw.

"You have nothing to worry about, dear," her mother said, her hand absent-mindedly stroking the smooth leather of her old trunk. "The Sorting Hat knows best. You'll see. He'll put you in the house that is best for you. You will be happy and have a great time. I promise." She smiled encouragingly.

Morgaine swallowed dryly, trying to dislodge the lump in her throat. "And you ... you won't be disappointed?"

"Oh, sweetie, how could I ever be? I know you'll make me proud of you no matter to which house you'll belong. I had a great time at Fogcourts in Slytherin. Your dad was a very happy Gryffindor, and your brother is a great Ravenclaw. See? We're all mixed and matched. Nothing to worry about. Though I _would_ be surprised if you turned out a Hufflepuff." She winked at Morgaine. Suddenly her mother frowned as if she'd thought of something that hadn't occurred to her before. "Morgaine, has uncle Malfoy been putting pressure on you? If he has, you have to tell me."

Morgaine shook her head. Her mother's words had lifted a weight from her shoulders. Somehow, she'd begun thinking that if she'd not end up in Gryffindor, her mother would be unhappy. "Nah," she said. "Uncle Malfoy hasn't bothered me about school. At least not more than he always does, you know how he is, mom, always singing praises on Slytherin ..."

"Good. I think I'll be glad when you're sorted and that's out of the way. Don't forget to send an owl as soon as you're sorted and settled in, do you hear? And no matter where you end up, do remember to pass on my best regards to Professor Snape."

Gerald rolled his eyes. "It'll be good to have you at the school, Morry. If only so I don't get to be the one to pass Mom's endless love to her former head of house."

"Gerald Wichly," his mother said in a threatening voice. "Do you want to do the dishes for the rest of the week in an entirely mundane way?"

 **oooOooo**

Meanwhile, Godric Hiero sat miserably hidden away in the attic of the sprawling farmhouse of the Hiero family and contemplated the four houses of Fogcourts, or Hogwarts, as the school was called fondly by most pupils.

Prestigious Ravenclaw with the highest number of students making it to the best universities of the wizarding world. Solid Hufflepuff with its many ties of friendship throughout the magical society. Slytherin with its ambiguous fame for mysteries and secrets uncovered or hidden away. And Gryffindor, of course, with all its glory and bravery ...

It was bad enough that his parents had called him Godric. A name and a legacy that he would never be able to live down or escape. What was worse was that most of his family had been sorted into Gryffindor. His two older half-brothers – Gavin and Galad – identical twins who had just started studying charms in Cambridge, had been in Gryffindor in true Weasley fashion. But his sister, Hildegard, who – like himself – was _not_ a Weasley, but a Hiero, was also in Gryffindor. He chewed on his thumb, ignoring the pain that stemmed from having bitten the nail down to the quick. His mother had been in Hufflepuff, he reasoned. So he might have a chance to end up there, too. And even among the Weasley clan, there were exceptions to the Gryffindor rule. Uncle Mordy had been a Ravenclaw, after all.

 _Everything_ , he thought. _Just not Gryffindor._

Just thinking about it made his stomach turn: _Godric Hiero from Gryffindor_. He imagined the roar of laughter filling up the Great Hall as the Sorting Hat barked out his judgement.

"I'm just not up to that sort of thing," he muttered. "I'm not brave enough. I'm not clever enough." He looked at the spider cosily spinning her web between the rafters above his head. "I wish I'd been born a squib."

"Godric?" called his mother from downstairs. "Are you ready? Come down, or have you forgotten that we wanted to go and visit your cousin Ginny and buy the things you need for school today?"

 _How could he_ _possibly have forgotten that?_ Godric rolled his eyes. The whole family had been harping about getting "the little one" ready to go to Fogcourts for weeks, if not months, it seemed to him. If it wasn't cousins George or Fred sneaking him a bag of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes under the table at the Burrow, it would be Aunt Molly fondly reminiscing her time at school, or Gavin and Galad making fun of him because he was so nervous and his sister admonishing him to keep his distance and behave himself once they were at school, because she really had better things to do than to watch out for her little brother.

 _Yeah_ , he thought bleakly. _Like ogling that Ravenclaw prefect, Gerald Wichly._

His mother called again. "Godric Bilius Hiero, come down here this instant. If you make me come up and get you, you WILL live to regret it. Your cousin Ginny is waiting for us!"

"Yes, mama," he shouted and dragged himself up. "Coming."

There was no help for it. Today they were going shopping, and in a week he'd be on his way to Fogcourts.

 **oooOooo**

* * *

 **A/N:**

My story takes place in 2008, exactly 10 years after when canon would have concluded the events of the HP series. I assume my muses will tell me in due course why that is important.

Canon says nothing about Lucius Malfoy having siblings. In this AU he has a sister, Argentea ("silver one"), who married Harold "Harry" Wichly, a Gryffindor, who disappeared in 2001.

" _Insignim muto"_ means "I change the coat of arms".

" _Aera purgo"_ means "I clear/purify the air".

Ash is a tree with a long mystical tradition. Yggdrasil, the holy tree of Viking mythology was an ash. In British folklore the tree and its wood is attributed protective and healing properties. Its wood is strong, tough and elastic. A griffin has the wings of an eagle, so that's where the feather comes from. An interesting wand for a Slytherin, I think. And maybe a bit of an explanation of how she ended up with a Gryffindor.

Bilius is probably one of the two brothers of Arthur Weasley. According to canon he died after seeing a Grim. In my story he was married to Hermione Rowan and they had two sons, the twins Gavin and Galad (born in 1990). After Bilius died, she married Alexander Hiero and had two more children, Hildegard (born in 1994) and Godric (born in 1997).

Uncle Mordy would be the third Weasley brother, short for Mordered (which also a hint why he wasn't in Gryffindor).


	5. Books and Plans

The visit to Diagon Alley was painful for Godric, as it seemed to be all about dragging him away from things he wanted but wasn't allowed to have yet.

It started with Eeylops Owl Emporium.

His mother was a methodical shopper, counter-clockwise for luck. Therefore they went to the cauldron shop first. That was easy. A pewter cauldron, standard size 2. A set of stirring rods and phials. Brass scales. But next door to the cauldron shop was Eeylops, and cousin Ginny needed some owl treats for her screech owl, Fergie. So Godric was allowed to accompany her into one of his favourite shops. Fascinated he stood in the dimly lit interior of the store and gazed up at the wooden perches that lined the walls of the shop. Jewel-bright eyes glittered down at him from a darkness that was filled with rustling feathers. But before he could determine whether he liked the delicate snowy owl with its pure white wings or the haughty black eagle owl best, cousin Ginny was already done with her purchases and prodding him to move back out into the sunshine.

"Just another three years," she said. "Then you can get your own owl and take it with you to Hogwarts."

Godric just groaned. Three years were an eternity! But aloud he only muttered, "Mama's forbidden me to say Hogwarts. She says it's disrespectful."

Cousin Ginny snorted and grinned at him. "I won't tell her."

His mother had already moved on to "Magickal Mechanisms & Ensorcelled Equipment", therefore Godric attempted a brave grin and opened his mouth to live up to her dare. Then a thought occured to him: _Wouldn't it be very Gryffindor to use a name that his mother had told him not to use? So maybe if he_ obeyed _his mother's wishes, he'd end up in Hufflepuff?_

But when Ginny elbowed him in the side and whispered, "Quick, say it before we've caught up with her!", he couldn't resist.

"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, hog-warty Hogwarts," he mouthed back at her. Ginny giggled appreciatively.

His cousin, although she was the youngest of the Weasley children, was much older than he was – she was almost twenty-seven years old and an established sports-reporter with the Daily Prophet. But he liked her all the same. She was cool, for her age.

But her older sister was even cooler. "Ronnie" Veronica Weasley was a famous Quidditch player. She had led the Chudley Cannons to a winning streak, effectively turning Quidditch games into big family meetings of the whole Weasley clan. Unfortunately she was also a very busy witch and he rarely got the chance to see her, even though he was a big supporter of her and her team.

From the shop with the magical instruments Ginny dragged them to a junk shop at the very end of Diagon Alley.

"Don't touch anything," she advised. "You don't know where it comes from."

Godric's mother shook her head at the younger woman. "Then why do you insist to come here?"

Ginny shrugged her red mane back over her shoulders. "The thrill of danger, aunt Hermione. You know me."

Godric's mother snorted. "Indeed, I do, girl. I guess you wouldn't be willing to take your own advice to heart?" she asked, when Ginny was eagerly rifling through a box with old spell books, grimoires and diaries.

"Never," Ginny grinned unrepentantly at her aunt. "Oh, look! An empty notebook. Isn't it beautiful?"

It was a slim book bound in dark green leather. The cover was graced with elegant black initials surrounded by two snakes that bit each other in the tail. "I wonder who 'T.R.' was," Ginny mused. "Having such a lovely notebook, obviously designed specially for him and never using it ..."

Godric looked the book over, intrigued. "Maybe he was murdered before he could use it?" he suggested.

His mother just kept shaking her head. But Ginny laughed. "You'll become an investigative journalist yet, Godric. You've got a nose for a good story!" – Turning to her aunt, she thumped the notebook. "I'm getting it."

Their way back led them to the other side of the road and closer to temptation. Passing the window of Ollivander's, Godric slowed down as much as possible, casting longing looks at the window. Behind many tiny panes lay the austere interior of the best wand shop in the country.

"Come on, Godric, we still have to get your robes and your books," his mother urged.

Ginny made a sympathetic 'aww' sound and - to his utter mortification - tousled his hair, while she murmured encouragingly, "Just another week, and you'll get one of your own. And a week later you'll serve your first detention at good old hog-warty Hogwarts."

"I didn't hear that just now, Ginny. Really! Isn't it enough that Gavin and Galad turned out to be just like your brothers? Do you really have to corrupt my youngest, too?"

"Come on, Hermy. It's not as bad as all that. And besides, it's my duty to corrupt him. After all, I _am_ the youngest of my branch of the Weasley family."

"We are not stopping at your brothers' shop. And I mean that."

Ginny sniggered. But Godric knew that his mother was serious. She hurried along Diagon Alley to get to Madam Malkin's and much to his distress Godric barely got a chance to ogle the display of joke and prank articles at Gambol & Japes or to spare more than a glance for the exotic familiars at the Magical Menagerie.

While he was standing on a stool inside Madam Malkin's robes shop, being measured, poked and prodded and hung with various kinds of fabric for school robes and uniforms, his mother and Ginny chatted about Fogcourts and various juicy tidbits fresh from the rumour mill and the desks of the Daily Prophet.

He listened with half an ear, while trying his best to keep his arms outstretched in a straight line and unshaking for Madam Malkin's mousy-faced seamstress.

"Have you heard about Snape's encounter with that rabid fan girl?"

Snape would be Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master at Fogcourts. Godric absentmindedly wondered why a Hog- Fogcourts teacher would have 'fans', before his thoughts drifted off to the elegant eagle owl he'd glimpsed at Eeylops.

"Oh, yes," said his mother, "Margie insisted on showing me what the Quibbler wrote about that incident."

Ginny giggled. "Well, as far as I know it wasn't _quite_ that bad. But you know, I do wonder what the Ministry was thinking. Mug- _Mundanes_ ," she corrected herself before her aunt could complain, "Mundanes are not stupid for all they have no magic. With the information that is out there right now it is not all that difficult to find him." She shook her head. "He almost hexed the girl into oblivion, he was that angry! If the watch-wizard hadn't stepped in, I don't know what Snape would have done. As it is, they had to cast a very strong _Obliviate_ on her. That didn't help the woman's already bungled senses one bit, I tell you. Last time I checked the internet, I found a website on which she claimed that she was inalienably connected with Snape on an astral level ..."

"Oh dear," Hermione Hiero said feebly. Then, looking at Godric, she changed the topic rather enthusiastically. "And look at you! All ready to go to school and get sorted, aren't you?"

Godric blinked, trying to banish his day-dreams of owls, wands and broomsticks and attempting to provide his mother with the reply she expected to hear. " _Err ..._ yeah?"

"Perfect." His mother beamed at the seamstress. "Is that all?"

The dressmaker bobbed a shy curtsy. "That would be the full outfit for a first year at Fogcourts, yes, madam."

"Wonderful."

On their way to Flourish and Blotts Ginny continued relentlessly where they had left off the conversation. "Really, if the Ministry had any idea of where the whole Harry Potter business would lead us, I doubt they would have agreed to that kind of a PR strategy."

"But your father is still very happy about it all, isn't he?"

Ginny laughed. "Of course he is, even if everyone else is going crazy. You know him and his crusade for mundane-magical cooperation."

"What's Harry Potter?" asked Godric. If it could make one of his future professors angry enough to attack a Muggle, he figured, it had to be something extremely dangerous. And he knew very well just how much uncle Arthur liked hazardous Muggle things.

"Oh, nothing, dear," his mother soothed and glared at Ginny over the top of his head. "Nothing for you to worry about. Just a Muggle thing. _Urgh_ – an effort of the Ministry of Magic to improve mundane-magical relations."

Now he was sure of it. For his mother to forget her manners and use the Bad Word "Muggle", this "Harry Potter business" had to be very serious indeed.

But now even Ginny had caught on and did not say anything else about the matter. Instead she quickened her pace and entered the bookshop ahead of her aunt and cousin, pretending to be very interested in the new romance novel by Gilderoy Lockhart that was on display, complete with pink bubble hearts drifting up from the covers and bursting with shallow plops all over the place.

Getting his books at Flourish and Blotts ended up being the best part of the shopping tour. Godric rather liked books, and getting a stack of his own, even if they were only school books, felt a little bit like birthday and Christmas all rolled into one.

By the time they emerged from the bookshop it was already almost time to go home. Ginny insisted on buying Godric a big cone of chocolate ice-cream topped with wiggling nougat worms at Florean Fortescue on the way. But to his great disappointment she didn't have time to spend more than five minutes window-shopping at Quality Quidditch Supplies with him, even though they had the new Nimbus 10,001 on display.

"I've got a date this evening," she admitted to her aunt's delight.

"Oh, Ginny, how lovely! Who is the lucky young man?"

"An editor from WhizzHards Books. Simon Potter. A really nice guy." Ginny beamed, and laughed when Godric groaned.

He only rolled his eyes at her. What was it with girls and dates, anyway? His sister was just the same. Throughout the holidays it had been a constant Gerald this and Gerald that.

"One day, Godric, you will understand," his mother intoned.

Ginny giggled, and Godric groaned again, louder, this time. "Sooner rather than later, aunt Hermione, now that he's ready to start school," she commented, ignoring the way Godric mouthed an exaggerated "never" at her. "Any news about Hilde's dream-boy?"

"Gerald?" Godric's mother grinned. "I think this is the first time the girl is actually happy that the holidays are over."

"Oh, dear," was Ginny's reply. "That sounds serious. Look, aunt Hermione, thank you for taking me along today. It was a lot of fun. But I have to run now. Or I'll need some serious spells to get presentable in time for dinner. Say hi to the rest of the family."

After hugging her aunt and messing up Godric's already messy hair once more, Ginny Disapparated with a smart crack, and his mother proceeded to drag a very reluctant Godric away from Quality Quidditch supplies to the end of Diagon Alley and the public portkey station.

 **oooOooo**

When Anna opened the door to Peter's room, he jumped and quickly hid a book under the duvet of his bed.

"Hello, Peter," she said. She felt strangely awkward about coming to meet him on her own. But Henry hadn't wanted to come. All that wizarding stuff really bored him to bits, he said. She knew that this was not strictly true, since they hadn't talked about it yet really. But she realised that her brother had to feel left out, after his best friend and his sister had been accepted at ... her face grew hot at the thought ... at a very special school indeed.

"What are you reading?" she asked. "May I sit down?"

He shrugged.

She sat down on the edge of a chair in the corner. The backrest was scratched with claw marks, she noticed. But the owl was of course long gone, just like hers. Or rather, the owl that had brought her letter. They were not allowed owls of their own yet, after all. She had sent "her" owl off the day after Professor Tonks-Lupin had come to visit them.

She looked around her. His room had changed, just like hers. His stereo-set, and his treasured computer were gone from the room. Just like the electric watch on his bookshelf. There were no light-bulbs in the lamps. Instead a big candle in a brass sconce was sitting on his nightstand – next to, she suppressed a giggle, a stack of paperbacks that were undeniably Harry Potter books. At last, a convert!

"That's what my parents did, too," she said. "Remove all electric stuff from my room. While I'm gone, they'll even rip out the cables. Just to be on the safe side." Then she turned her attention back to the bulge of the book that he'd hidden away when she entered the room.

"So what _are_ you reading?" she insisted.

He didn't reply, but reluctantly pulled the book out from under the cover. It was _"Fogcourts: A History"_. Suddenly she felt a huge, silly grin on her face. "I'm reading that, too," she admitted in a lowered voice, as if she was entrusting him a great secret. "Too bad that we'll only get our wands once we're there. I would have liked to try out some more magic."

"She said it's dangerous," Peter said.

"So he can talk after all! A miracle!" Anna exclaimed extravagantly. But then she sighed and nodded. "Yes, I know. We have no feel for our magic yet and could do ourselves serious harm. Therefore, no wands yet. But soon, very soon! Just another week! Aren't you excited?"

Peter nodded slowly. "I guess I am." Suddenly he smiled at her. "Yeah, you're right. I really am. The whole thing is so crazy, but totally cool, isn't it?"

"Beyond cool," Anna agreed readily. "I can't wait. Especially, finding out what of them," she pointed at the Harry Potter books, "is real, and what is not."

Peter nodded again. "I can't make up my mind about that, you know? I mean, we already know that some big, important things are different. Like the name of the school."

"And no You-Know-Who."

He sniggered. "See? I told you it's ridiculous for a big bad enemy wizard to want to be called 'You-Know-Who'. At least _I_ could never see anything scary in that title. That was just plain silly."

She stuck her tongue out at him. "But other stuff is real," she said. "The shops. And Professor McGonagall. And aren't you glad that Tonks and Lupin are alive!"

When she thought of that, she simply couldn't stop smiling. That thought made her so happy that she felt it ought to be enough to produce one splendid _Patronus_. If that spell existed, at least. And if she were already sufficiently advanced of even thinking of trying a spell like that.

"You have no idea if they are the same people as in the books," Peter said. "Professor Tonks-Lupin had no colourful hair and she wasn't at all clumsy. She could have been a lawyer, she looked that business-like. My dad liked her."

Anna nodded reluctantly. "But still, with those names, she simply MUST be the one from the books."

"Hmmm." Peter put his book aside.

"What's up with those books anyway, do you reckon?" Anna asked.

"How, up?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "Well, who did really write them! And why? And why were some things changed and others not?"

"It's a public relations thing. My father explained it to me. They got a brochure about it. It's supposed to be good for mundane-magical cooperation. And we'll have it easier to get around in the wizarding world, because we're already familiar with lots of the things. Like broomsticks and all. Yeah, the Professor told me all that," Peter said.

"But still, don't you think it's, dunno, kind of weird? To come up with such a dark story? To make kids feel better about being wizards?"

"Well, the good side won, after all," Peter suggested.

Anna kept staring at him, biting her tongue in order not to snap at him. How could boys be so obtuse?

At last he pursed his lips and made a snorting sound to show that he was giving up in this contest of wills. "You win. You're right. It really _is_ weird."

After another moment's silence, Anna asked, "D'you think we might find out about all of that once we're at school? You know, find out what is real and what isn't? And who Harry Potter really was and all that?"

Peter frowned at her. "We're going to school, Anna. We're not falling into some kind of magical adventure book."

"Puh!" she huffed. "You have magical books spread out all over your room and you're saying something like that?"

"I'm just wary because I recognize that gleam in your eyes. You look like that when you have an _idea_." He pronounced the word "idea" as if it was some kind of very yucky and disgusting substance.

She sniffed. "Well, if you're too scared ..."

Peter groaned. "I should have known. _What?_ What do you want? Isn't it enough that you and I have been accepted at a school that I wouldn't believe existed in my craziest dreams and that I've actually repaired a broken saucer with using a Latin word and a small stick of wood? Is it really necessary that you come up with some sort of _mission_ for us?"

Anna just grinned. "I've already drawn up some tables for us, so we can fill in what matches the books and what doesn't. Too bad we mustn't use computers anymore. That would have been sooo much easier."

Peter scratched his head and threw Anna a searching look. He'd obviously realised that there was something she hadn't mentioned so far. Or rather someone. Someone who was usually never far from Anna, thoughts or otherwise.

"Could we ask Henry to help us with his computer?" he suggested.

She didn't look at her friend. Or rather, she reminded herself, her brother's friend. Chewing on her lip once more, she didn't reply for a long while. "Dunno," she said at last. "I figure he's kind of disappointed, you know? He's not – he's not really been talking to me lately."

She shifted uncomfortably on her seat. _Maybe it would have been better not to come,_ she thought. _Maybe Peter was mad at her, too. Maybe he'd much rather go to school with his best friend, and not with her._

A thump startled her and made her look up. Peter had tossed the history book onto his desk. "I'm sure he'll come round," he said, shrugging his shoulders awkwardly. "And besides," he went on, "as much as your brother likes to work with tools and things, I guess he wouldn't like magic much anyway. – So, what's with those tables you were going on about a moment ago? If you're going all Hermione Granger on me, I'd like at least to take a look at what I'm letting myself in for!"

 **oooOooo**

* * *

 **A/N:** Comments, concrit and questions are very welcome. I'll post some more A/N and stuff on my "KrimsKrams" forum here at FFNet and at my juno(underscore)magic LiveJournal tomorrow. Feel free to drop in and leave a message!

(Oh, and I messed up and called Ginny an aunt in the last chapter; of course she's Godric's cousin. I've corrected that.)


	6. Several Discussions, But Really Only One Topic

Anna stared at her plate. A fat piece of chocolate cake sat in the middle of her favourite blue plate. Even just looking at it made her feel as if a heavy lump weighed down her stomach.

Cake for breakfast. And it wasn't even their birthday. Well, it _was_ a special occasion.

She was leaving today, leaving for her first year at Fogcourts, school for witchcraft and wizardry. Her stomach cramped.

She had to be at Chester station at 9.30 am, where she would be met by a prefect who was called Jane Abbot. At 10.00 am sharp, her train would leave Chester station. They would change trains at Crewe, and again at Glasgow. In Glasgow they would have to get to another station and then on the train to Stirling, where they would arrive at 15.01. In Stirling, transportation to Fogcourts would await them.

Anna surreptitiously rubbed hands that were icy because of being so nervous below the table. One thing that was not like the books was how they were getting to Ho-, no, FOGCOURTS. She needed to get that silly name out of her head! And how she wished there was such a thing as the Hogwarts Express in real life. The long journey with all that changing of trains and everything felt more than daunting. At least she wasn't going to be alone. Peter would be there, too. And that prefect. And probably other students. She tried not to think of her nightmares that had entailed dementors, rodents of unusual size, and smirking blond boys. She swallowed dryly. Chances were that neither dementors nor the Malfoy family were real.

But she simply couldn't eat. To say that she had no appetite was putting it mildly. She felt positively sick with nerves. Her brother, sitting next to her, was stuffing himself with cake. Henry had mostly ignored her during the last weeks. And today a gruff "'morning" was all he'd said to her so far. She shot a helpless glance at her mother, who offered her an encouraging smile. Anna sighed and finally decided to try eating a bit of cake after all. Nibbling on the rich chocolate crumbs, she mused how it was possible that she wasn't completely over the moon happy with her dearest dream coming true. A dream that really had no business coming true, to boot. She glanced at her brother out of the corner of her eye. Tomorrow he would start at King's School, a prestigious independent school near the cathedral. And she'd be far away somewhere in the Scottish highlands. For the first time since they were born, they would be apart for longer than a week, and her brother was so mad at her that she wondered if he'd even hug her goodbye.

Then they were at the station, and her father lifted a huge suitcase out of the trunk of their car. Anna hugged her backpack with her books and the train tickets and her purse to her and looked around nervously, hoping that she'd see Peter somewhere. And indeed, there he was, accompanied by his father. She waved wildly at him, or as enthusiastically as she could, while still holding up her heavy bag with one arm.

"Hey, Anna. Hullo, Henry!"

"Mr. and Mrs. Perkins, Anna, Henry, nice to see you."

"Mr. Morgan, good morning. Hello, Peter. Are you as excited as our Anna?"

"Uh ..."

His father laughed. "As if a boy would ever admit that he's nervous."

"Of course not." Anna's mother joined in, her amusement crinkling her the tiny laughter lines fanning out at the corners of her eyes. Henry glared at her. Peter rolled his and grinned at them, but Anna saw that he was pale, and that the knuckles of his right hand stood out so hard was he holding onto the strap of his backpack.

Anna's father secured the parking ticket near the windscreen of the car. Then he shut the door with a resounding thump.

"Well, let's go. Platform three, right?" her father asked. Anna nodded, unable to say a word. Her heart was beating so fast. _It's just a train,_ she told herself. _Just an ordinary train. And I won't be alone. No reason to be so scared!_

"Disappointed that it's not 9 ¾, Anna?" Peter's father smiled at her.

"Does everyone read those stupid books these days?" Henry groused. Anna bit her lip and said nothing. Peter raised an eyebrow at his best friend, but refrained from commenting as well.

For a moment everyone was silent, in an uncomfortable way that made Anna's back itch between the shoulder blades. Luckily her mother stepped in and distracted from the scene. "We really need to get going now. We're supposed to meet that prefect in five minutes."

The prefect was something of a let-down for Anna. Jane Abbot was a gangly girl of almost fifteen years, with blond hair and a dimpled smile. She was dressed in dark blue trousers and a black coat. She did not look even remotely like a witch. She looked like a perfectly normal teenager.

"I'm in charge of taking the first year students of mundane or mixed origins from the south to the meeting point. Gerald Wichly is picking up the northern group. We'll meet the other students at a picnic area in the Ochil Hills, at Dumyat. There will be transportation to Fogcourts from there. I'll make sure that Anna and Peter let you know that they've arrived safely tomorrow, Mr. and Mrs. Perkins, Mr. Morgan."

Anna's mother smiled, relief apparent on her face. "Thank you, Miss Abbot. I think all of us are a little bit nervous."

Jane Abbot nodded. "That's normal. But you really don't have to worry. I'm from Ellesmere myself. I've gone up via Glasgow and Stirling in my first year, too, so I'm not doing this for the first time. And I promise I know the schedule and train id's by heart."

"And the train," put in Mr. Morgan, "all that electricity, won't that be ... dangerous?"

Jane Abbot looked a little surprised, but she shook her head quickly. "I guess it's not exactly healthy, but the compartments reserved for the students have been enchanted and it's only for a few hours, so there's really nothing to worry about."

Mr. Morgan gave the girl a curt nod. "I'll just go and get Peter's trunk."

A short time later their trunks were stowed in their cabin and they were standing on the platform to say goodbye to their families, while Jane Abbot was talking to another pair of students, a brown haired boy and a chubby, blond and freckled girl, along with their parents.

Peter, Henry and Anna were standing near the door of the train, while their parents were talking with each other in lowered voices, now and then glancing at the big clock. Twenty minutes to go.

Anna fidgeted. Her throat was tight, and her eyes felt hot. She was scared to look at her brother or say anything because of what he might say in return. She did not want to cry, and she was very much afraid that she would. Suddenly Peter's voice penetrated her gloom.

"Henry, stop being such a prat. You _know_ that you wouldn't like to do magic."

Her brother muttered an unintelligible reply.

"What did you say? Oh, come on, stop sulking."

"I said, are you going to share your tricks when you come home for the holidays?" Henry's voice sounded faintly hopeful, and way friendlier than ever since the letter arrived.

Carefully Anna cast a glance at her brother from underneath her fringe. He wasn't looking at his best friend. He was looking at her.

"Of course we will!" she exclaimed, raising her head.

A tentative smile flickered across her brother's face. But Peter frowned. "I'm not sure we'll be allowed to –"

"Time to get on the train," interrupted Jane Abbot. "Better say goodbye to your parents"

Suddenly Anna found herself in the embrace of her father. "Behave yourself. Do your homework." Then, a quick peck on her cheek. "We'll miss you, girl."

She clung to her mother, her eyes burning again.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

Her mother hugged her fiercely. "There's nothing you need to be sorry for. You are very different from your brother. Just because you're twins you can't be doing everything together, all your life. You need to learn what to do with the talents you have. Just like your brother needs to learn about his. I love you, witchlet. Don't forget to write to us."

Anna nodded. She had to force herself to let her mother go.

Then she stood in front of her brother. And did not know what to say.

In the end, she repeated what she'd said before. "I'm sorry."

Her brother stared at her for a moment. Then he forced a grin. "If you absolutely have to hug me, do it quick."

She gasped with relief and threw herself into his arms. When she released him, Henry was scowling. "Don't get in trouble. And ... you'll write, will you?"

"Of course I will!"

When the train started to move, Anna, Peter and the other two children pressed their noses against the window of their cabin and waved until they couldn't see their parents anymore. Only when they had left the station behind, they moved away from the window and faced each other.

"I'm Peter," said Peter. "And that's Anna." Anna glared at her friend. She could have introduced herself.

"Oh, do you already know each other?" asked the girl. "I'm Mabel Draggle. But please call me Mab." She wasn't fat, Anna noticed. Just small, and sort of ... fluffy, in a rounded way.

"Yes, we do. Peter's a friend of my twin brother," Anna explained.

"But he didn't get a letter?"

Anna shook her head. She didn't know what to say.

"I'm Thomas Dimwood," the other boy said, breaking the silence. "You can call me Tom." Tom had a very round head, and very earnest brown eyes.

At that moment the door to their cabin moved back, and Jane Abbot came in. "So you've introduced yourselves? Good. Don't get too comfortable, we'll be in Crewe shortly."

Mab shot an alarmed look at her. "What about our luggage? My suitcase is terribly heavy."

Jane grinned at her. "Not anymore."

Mab looked confused, while Tom stared at Jane with his mouth open. Peter just said, "Really? May I try lifting my suitcase? It's pretty heavy, too." He had already his hand on the door handle.

"I think that can wait until we're in Crewe," the prefect said sensibly.

"Does that mean we may do magic at home? I mean, once we know how to do magic, which, obviously, we don't know yet," asked Anna.

"No," replied Jane. "You may not do any magic outside the school grounds, except for self-defence. However, I'm a prefect, and for the purpose of getting you to the school smoothly and safely, _I_ may do a number of certain simple charms. Which is just as well, all things considered. Tom, what do you have in your trunk? When I tried it without the charm, I could barely lift it at all!"

Tom looked abashed. "Just some extra books."

Peter snorted. "Then you need to try Anna's suitcase. I bet it's even heavier. Bookworms!"

"Hey," said Anna. "You like reading, too!"

"Didn't say I didn't," retorted Peter. "I just don't inhale them, like certain other people who-must-not-be-named." He waggled his eyebrows meaningfully.

Mab started giggling, then laughing. Anna tried to remain serious, but when Tom started chuckling and Peter's grin grew broader and broader, she couldn't contain her own giggle fit a moment longer.

When their laughter finally died down, they were completely comfortable with each other.

Anna turned to Jane Abbott, who seemed to hard put not to giggle herself. "So is it really like the books and the movies? Or totally different? You do know the Harry Potter books, don't you?"

Jane nodded. "Of course I know them. They are quite funny." Her grin escaped her attempt to maintain the serious façade of a prefect. "You'll soon see for yourself what about the books and the movies is real and what is not. Just ... a word of advice about that matter. The wizard-born students _don't_ know the books. Or the movies. At least most of them don't. And most of the teachers – although I think most of them do know the books and the movies – well, they don't like it. So it's better not to talk about those things anywhere where you might be overheard, which is pretty much everywhere in the castle and the grounds."

Tom gulped. Mab sucked in her lower lip. Peter raised an eyebrow.

But before they got much further with their discussion, they were already in Crewe where they had to change trains for the first time.

Tom had a real trunk, and she felt that her face should by rights be green with envy. Maybe she could get a real trunk one day, too? Or ... she hardly dared to imagine it, maybe she would learn how to transfigure her suitcase into a trunk? Then he tried to lift the trunk. He jerked, let go of the grip, and – instead of falling to the ground with a crash, the trunk gently lowered itself down in a floating motion until it sat still next to Tom.

"Wow," said Anna. And Mab echoed, "Wow."

Then it was Anna's turn to lift her own suitcase, and the heavy travel case was not only as light as a cushion, it also seemed to be floating somehow, so it was more a matter of directing it along than actually carrying it. "Wow," she repeated.

Jane Abbott grinned at her charges. "Cool, huh? Remember to look as if that stuff is heavy when we are changing trains. But don't overdo it. And for heaven's sake, let no one _help_ you!"

Mab looked suitably scared at that warning, but they were lucky. No one offered to help, and soon they were safely ensconced in another train cabin and on their way to Glasgow.

"But there really are four houses called Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin and Gryffindor? That's not just in the books, right?" Tom wanted to know.

Jane nodded. "That's right. You did get 'Fogcourts: A History', didn't you?"

"Yes."

"The other books wouldn't open," complained Anna.

"Yours wouldn't open either?" Tom asked, his curiosity piqued.

"No. I did so much want to learn some spells already!"

The prefect laughed. "What did I say about no magic outside the school?"

Mab flushed pinkly. "Oh, that's why."

"That's why," agreed Jane.

"So which house are you in?" asked Peter, obviously determined to learn as much as he could from the friendly prefect. Anna smiled appreciatively. That would have been her question, too.

"I'm a Hufflepuff," replied Jane. "The other Fourth Year prefect is a wizard-born student, Gerald Wichly, a Ravenclaw. If any of you have a problem at school, you can come to us any time. We'll help you. But you really don't have to worry. The first few days are confusing, but you'll get used to it in next to no time."

The time until they reached Glasgow was spent talking mainly about the four houses. Jane Abbot advised them to put the house rivalries as they were displayed in certain books out of their minds. "I'm not saying there's no competition, but you shouldn't start school with your heads filled with stupid prejudices."

From the way the older girl said that, Anna rather assumed that Jane didn't like the way the houses were portrayed in the books.

"I don't think I'm brave enough for Gryffindor," she offered.

"Me neither," Mab agreed. "My grandmother was in Hufflepuff."

"Oh! But why are you coming by train then?" Anna stared at her companion, eyes wide. Mab didn't look like a witch at all. Even less than she did, if anything.

"My parents aren't magic," Mab explained. "And granny died when I was really small."

"I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago. I don't remember her at all. I don't even remember if she did any magic so I could see it. But it _did_ make things easier for my parents, when I got that letter."

"I think I'd like to be in Ravenclaw," Peter said.

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Maybe I like the colours?"

Anna snorted and was met with another of Peter's raised eyebrows.

"Do you practice that in front of a mirror?" she asked irritably.

"Which house would you like to be in?" Mab asked, interrupting their banter.

Anna shrugged. "I'm not really sure, you know? I still can hardly believe that this is real."

Her gaze strayed up to where their suitcases lay on the luggage racks, light as so many feathers.

"I know what you mean," agreed Tom. "Who would have thought that any of this could ever be real?"

Changing trains at Glasgow involved getting on a bus, which was a bit scary, because there were other so many other people around, and a nice man wanted to help Anna, but she did told him that she needed to be a big girl, and when it was obvious that she could manage, he left her alone. Which was very good, because she'd gotten very weak knees by the time he turned around, and her palm was all sweaty from imagining that she would have to try and fight the helpful man for keeping her suitcase to herself. He would have discovered that the suitcase weighed no more than a feather, or a cushion or something very, very light, and not at all what such a bulky and obviously stuffed-to-the-brim travel case ought to weigh. Luckily it didn't happen. But Anna only breathed easier, once they had actually reached their train.

When they arrived at their platform, she could see at a glance that a few other students who looked to be around her age were already waiting for them. The taller girl was Freda Ashmole. The one with the curly hair and pinched look was Elizabeth Fell. Elizabeth's father was a wizard, but her parents were divorced, and she rarely ever got to see her father. Then a fragile looking black-haired girl arrived, dragging a huge battered trunk behind her.

Jane hurried towards her. Anna couldn't see what she was doing, but when the prefect turned around, the girl carried the trunk much more easily, although she made a good show of it, groaning and leaning to her left. When they came closer, Anna could see that her green eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Tom, Mab, Anna, Peter – meet Morgaine Wichly."

"You may call me Morry," Morgaine said diffidently, as she shook hands with the others. "But if you call me Fata, I'll hex you."

"You'll do no such thing unless you want to lose house points before you're even sorted," Jane said sternly.

Morgaine winked at Anna, but replied quite meekly. "Yes, of course, Jane."

Peter frowned. And Anna realised that the two of them sounded as if they knew each other. The prefect was quicker than their questions. "Morgaine's one of the wizard-born students in your form. Her older brother, Gerald, is the other Fourth Year prefect. He's coming up with another group of students. Now, let's get on that train."

Morgaine grinned at Anna. "Don't stare at me like that! Is there dirt on my nose or something?"

"No – I didn't – I –" Flustered, Anna broke off. Then she shrugged and grinned back. "I guess I did stare. So your parents are –"

Morgaine nodded. "Both of them. My Mom's a witch. A potions maker. My dad is – was – a wizard. He's – he's no longer around."

"Oh." Then: "Would you like some chocolate? I'm afraid it's only Muggle –"

The prefect, who'd been stowing away the trunks, turned to Anna and interrupted, "We don't use that word. It's not polite, Anna. The word you want is 'mundane'."

"Oh. Umm ... Sorry. I –"

"Just don't use it again," Jane said and turned back to the luggage rack just in time not to see Morgaine roll her eyes at Anna.

Anna giggled.

"I'd love some of your _mundane_ chocolate," Morgaine said, stressing the word 'mundane' dramatically. Then she flopped down in the seat between Peter and Anna.

"So which house do you reckon you'll be sorted into?" she asked.


	7. Picnics and Portkeys

"Oh my GOD! Ponies!" Morgaine squeed with delight. She let go of her trunk and raced towards the first of the three small pony carts waiting in front of Stirling station. Anna followed hard on her heels, though she kept trying to pretend that she was dragging a suitably heavy suitcase. Peter wasn't far behind.

Only Tom muttered, "And here I was hoping for unicorns ..."

"The pony carts will take us to a parking lot at Blairlogie village. From there we're going to hike up to the summit of Dumyat where we'll meet the others of your form for a picnic and some games. Afterwards we'll Portkey to Fogcourts," Jane Abbot explained.

"So Portkeys are real?" Anna asked, feeling positively giddy. _This is all real. Portkeys are real. I'm real. And I'm going to be a witch!_

Morgaine frowned at her. "Why shouldn't Portkeys be real?"

"Morgaine? Ready to help me with your trunk?" the prefect interrupted.

"Yes, of course, sorry," Morgaine hurried back and picked up her luggage again.

Jane winked at Anna, who felt a rush of heat wash over her face. _For someone who'd grown up with Portkeys and spells, I must sound very stupid._

The suitcases and trunks were stowed in one of the carts, then Jane divided the First Years between the remaining carts. Morgaine, Anna, Peter and Tom got one cart to themselves, while Jane took the first one, together with Freda, Elizabeth and Mab.

It didn't take them long to reach the small village of Blairlogie, situated just a few miles north-east of Stirling, on the road to Menstrie. It was quite pretty, cottages and old houses ducked into the shadow of the Ochil Hills.

"Here we go," Jane pointed towards a path at the edge of the parking lot.

"But what about the ponies?" Mab asked while she was worriedly cuddling a shaggy brown mane.

"They'll be taken care of, I promise. Houseelves will come and collect your trunks and the ponies. There's nothing to worry about."

"Houseelves!" Anna breathed, and even Peter formed a silent _"Wow!"_ with his lips.

"So there's really no houseelves and portkeys in the Mu- mundane world?" Morgaine asked, full of curiosity.

"No houseelves, no portkeys, no floating trunks," Mab informed her. "No wands. No magic."

Now it was Morgaine's turn to say "Wow".

"However do you manage?" she marvelled.

Then their prefect proceeded to herd them down to the village along the narrow woodland path. Beyond the village, the trail turned uphill, and soon they could look back down on Stirling and the River Forth that coiled in lazy, misty curls between distant green hills.

The weather was nice and Anna barely noticed how far they had to walk, so engrossed was she in chatting with Morgaine, Mab, Peter and Tom. They talked about everything, always comparing the magical with the non-magical world – from means of transportation to cooking to books to medicine. And again and again they wondered about which House would be theirs.

"My mother was in Slytherin," Morgaine said. "I think I'd actually like to be in her House. She really likes her old Head of House, Professor Snape. She says that he's very strict, but also very nice about his own."

"Snape?" Anna and Peter cried together. "So he's real, too?"

Morgaine frowned at them. "What is it with you and all that _'is real'_? You sound as if –"

She didn't get to finish her sentence, because a loud POP sounded nearby, and a sturdy blond boy stumbled right into her. "Oh, sorry!" The boy clutched at Morgaine to keep himself from falling over. "That Portkey was kind of rough."

He looked positively green.

"You gonna be sick all over me?" Morgaine asked, her face scrunched up in distaste. But she didn't let go of the boy until he blinked and shook his head.

"No. Uhm. Sorry. I'm really sorry. I – I – " He looked around in a panic, obviously scared that he'd arrived at the wrong place.

"Hey," interrupted Morgaine. "I think I know who you are! Godric, is that right?"

He frowned at her. "Yes, I am. And who are you?"

"Morgaine Wichly. My brother's in the same year as your sister." She grimaced.

"Ohhhh ..." An understanding look crossed his face and he wrinkled his stubbed nose. "So you're Gerald's little sister."

"Unfortunately." Morgaine grinned. "And you're Hilde's little brother."

"Obviously." Godric scowled. "Nothing I can do about it."

That made Morgaine laugh. Pushing Godric a little towards Anna and the rest of their group, she turned back to the others to introduce the newcomer.

"That's Godric Hiero. He's also from an all-wizard family. Godric, these are Anna, Peter, Mab and Tom. They are all of them mundanes."

"Hi," Godric said and held his hand out to Anna. "Nice to meet you."

"Hello Godric." Jane and the others had caught up with them. The prefect and Godric obviously knew each other. "Meet Elizabeth Fell and Freda Ashmole. – Well, kids," the prefect said, addressing the whole group, "we're almost there, so be prepared for more students suddenly appearing in your midst. Jump out of their way if they look like they're going to puke, and kindly lend them a hand if they're just a bit unsteady. Portkeying is not the most comfortable way of travelling, though one of the safer magical methods."

 **oooOooo**

At last they arrived at the summit, after having picked up three other students on their way (one of which, a pale boy with almost white hair, with the name of Roger Ollivander, actually vomiting into the bushes due to his Portkey journey).

At the top of the mountain a tall woman with dark hair pulled back into a bun and square spectacles was surrounded by a bunch of children, who all appeared to be listenting to her quite eagerly, while a bit further down another group of kids were playing a game of soccer with a black-haired boy of Jane Abbot's age, who looked very much like a taller and more muscular version of Morgaine.

"Is that your brother?" Anna asked, nodding towards the players.

"Yes, that's him. But whatever is he doing there?" Morgaine frowned.

"Looks like a game of soccer, why?"

"Sock – what?" Her new friend's frown deepened.

Anna laughed. "Oh – of course you don't know about that! It's a game, with a ball, you kick the ball with your feet and you have to get it into the goal of the other team to score."

"It's a bit like Quidditch," Peter put in. "Well, without brooms obviously. And without bludgers. And well –"

"Without everything really that makes Quidditch fun, apparently," Godric continued, his eyes on the game.

"It's good for you lot to learn how to play without magic," Jane interrupted them. "How about you run along and join them? I need to go and let Professor McGonagall know that my group has arrived safely."

Peter, Morgaine, Godric and Anna looked at each other. It was one of those magical moments where you don't need magic to know what the others are thinking.

"Let's explore the summit first," Anna suggested.

"I don't see how playing without magic can be fun," Godric said.

"Yeah," Peter agreed. "We've been waiting for weeks now to get to do magic for real. The last thing I want to do today is play soccer."

"I think they'll make us play soccer at the school, too, though," Morgaine commented. "At least Gerald does. As Jane said, it's supposed to be _good_ for us."

The others made suitably horrified faces. Then they set out, walking along the edge of the summit and looking down at the houses of Stirling in the distance.

"Strange that there's no one else around here today," Peter said. "I read that this is quite a touristy spot."

"They'll have Disillusioned it or something, to keep Mug- mundanes from wanting to go anywhere near it today," Godric explained. "I hope they'll start the picnic soon. I'm getting hungry."

"So which House do you want to be sorted into?" Anna asked, once again coming back to the topic nearest and dearest to her heart that day.

Godric's smile vanished and he grimaced painfully. "Anything but Gryffindor," he admitted at last.

Morgaine giggled, and he glared at her.

"Why?" Anna asked before really thinking about it. Godric scowled even more. Then she realised how it would sound ... Godric in Gryffindor. Godric Hiero, Gryffindor. She winced.

"You have a nickname?"

He shook his head.

"Too bad," Peter commented.

"We'll just have to come up with one!" Morgaine suggested with a wicked grin. "How about Riccy?"

"No."

"Godie?"

"Never."

"Hero?"

"Forget it."

"Well, then you'll simply have to live up to your name."

Godric just closed his eyes.

At that moment a bell sounded, and a loud call urged the children to gather at the summit.

 **oooOooo**

A short time later thirty-seven children, twenty girls and seventeen boys, were standing in front of Professor McGonagall and the Fourth Year prefects, Jane Abbot and Gerald Wichly.

"Welcome to the traditional First Day picnic of Fogcourts Academy, " Professor McGonagall welcomed them. Her voice was deep and she sounded strict. But not unfriendly.

"Today this is a chance for you to get to know each other before we arrive at Fogcourts and you are sorted into your Houses. In future years the picnic will give you the opportunity to catch up on holiday gossip and reduce the noise in the Great Hall before the Sorting Ceremony."

Jane Abbot grinned. Gerald Wichly managed to look serious.

"We'll eat together and play some games together – mundane games, no magic is allowed outside the school grounds. So don't even think of showing off whatever you believe you can already do. And believe me, starting at Fogcourts with points distracted from your House before you are even sorted into it, is generally considered as a very bad start. I urge you all to make the best start you possibly can.

"Now, I'll call each of you by name, and then I want to come to the front, pick up a name tag and tell us something about you. Just a few words about who you are, what kind of hobbies you have, what kind of food you like, if you have brothers or sisters.

"Well, then. Let's get started: Adamo, Angelina di, please introduce yourself."

A small, brown-skinned, black-haired girl shuffled to the front. "I'm Angelina di Adamo and my dad has an Italian restaurant near Diagon Alley. And I like pizza best of all. And all my family have always been wizards. And I want to be sorted into Slytherin."

Professor McGonagall smiled and held a name tag out to Angelina. "Nice to meet you, Angelina."

Next was Patricia Anckry, a thin, bespectacled girl who appeared to be utterly amazed by whatever she was looking at. She liked reading and cats. And she had an older sister in Ravenclaw.

Tall, blond Freda Ashmole enjoyed playing the violin and had no brothers or sisters.

Seth Avery was a scowling boy with a shock of scruffy black hair. His father was an apothecary. Seth liked chess. But only wizard chess, because Muggle chess was boring.

At last Morgaine Wichly finished her introduction with, "And Gerald over there is my older brother."

 **oooOooo**

The picnic that followed the round of introductions was pretty spectacular.

The small basket that sat on the ground next to Professor McGonagall never got empty.

First she produced a heap of fluffy picnic blankets and colourful pillows, then assorted jugs, mugs, plates, bowls, cutlery and napkins. After that followed all kinds of food and drink.

There were bottles of apple juice, pumpkin juice, orange juice and sparkling water. Cans of steaming cocoa and tea, peppermint, earl grey, ordinary tea and rose-hips. Chocolate cake and apple pie. Blueberry muffins and saffron scones. Clotted cream and strawberry jam. Buns, rolls, quiche and even pizza. Peaches, apples and bowls filled with fresh raspberries. Sandwiches with ham and cheese and egg and tuna. Green salad and tomatoes. Corn on the cob. And pieces of melon.

But best of all was a big basket of wizarding sweets.

Chocolate frogs, which were all Anna had hoped for. She got three cards to start her collection: Albus Humblelore, Rowena Ravenclaw, Severus Snape – who looked just like Alan Rickman, only he scowled even worse. Then there were ice mice, which made her bite her tongue in a painful way so that she ended up lisping for a while, Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans (Peter's first was mustard; Godric got sand; Morgaine was lucky and got marshmallow), levitating lemonade, yo-yo-yoghurt gums and much, much more.

When they were so stuffed that they thought they couldn't eat or drink anything anymore, never ever again, the prefects rounded them up for games. It was only traditional children's games, but for some strange and amazing reason, and even without any magic at all, the games turned out to be a lot of fun.

They played tag and "duck duck goose", "momma says", "whispers" and several others that Anna didn't know before.

At the end of the afternoon Anna knew that she and Peter were a good team, that Stephanie Entwhistle was terribly ticklish, that Alberic Myrrdin was horribly fast and that small Angelina di Adamo would stop at nothing when she wanted to win, not even at pinching you blue and green.

Finally Professor McGonagall rang her bell again.

The picnic equipment had long since been put away, and now it was time to Portkey to the school.

"Please separate into groups of four. Each group will be given a Portkey. The leftover student – yes, Miss Gladrags, I am aware that you cannot divide 37 by four – will join myself and the prefects. Each of you will hold onto the Portkey. _Firmly._ Then I will activate the Portkeys and we will be transported in front of the castle at Fogcourts. Try not to get sick on your classmates, and most of all, do NOT let go of the Portkeys until we're in front of the school. Is that clear? Any questions?"

Godric already looked green again.

"You gonna puke on us this time?" Morgaine asked. By chance Godric, Anna, Morgaine and Peter had ended up standing together again.

Godric pressed his lips together and shook his head.

"Okay. I'll risk it." Morgaine turned around and waited for Professor McGonagall making her way down the line of waiting students. The Portkeys the teacher handed out looked like colourful rubber rings. When Morgaine received the ring for their little group, Anna realised that they were actually the kind rubber toys that dogs were given to chew on. Their ring, which was a glaring pink, even had bite marks on it.

"Ewww," she said, but she hooked a finger of her right hand through the opening in the middle and held on as firmly as she could.

"Maybe we should take our hands?" Peter suggested. "That ring is a bit small."

"Good point, Peter. You're pretty smart for a –"

"Do you have your rings?" Professor McGonagall interrupted them. "Firmly gripped? Are you ready? Then on the count of three."

Anna felt Godric reach for her left hand, while Peter grabbed Morgaine's right.

"And ONE –"

 _Oh God, I'm so scared._

"TWO –"

 _Please let this be real. And don't let Godric pu –_

"THREE!"

She felt as if a hook grabbed her round the middle and dragged her into a black maelstrom that was whirling faster and faster until it had sucked her down – or up – she couldn't really tell.

 _So this is what a worm feels like –_


	8. The Sorting Hat

Peter stared at the Castle looming up above him into the darkening sky.

Fogcourts was huge.

As big as Hogwarts in the movies, and it had a similar look to it, too. Although the architecture of the Fogcourts was a bit more sensible than that of the movies'. And he'd never quite been able to imagine the castle from the descriptions in the books.

Fogcourts had four fat round towers at the corners and there seemed to be smaller towers in between at the sides of the castle. Additionally an imposing, round gatetower rose up on the other side of the drawbridge right in front of them. Somewhere in the middle of the castle the top of a square tower poked into the air, flanked by two needle-sharp, slender towers. Owls were circling around the one to the right.

... TBC ...


End file.
